


In The Clear

by NortheasternWind



Series: Poor Taste [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Delirium, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-11-21 19:57:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11364543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NortheasternWind/pseuds/NortheasternWind
Summary: This time it's the Strike Commander's turn to be rescued. It's not even remotely a new situation for him, but usually he knows his savior's name, at least. There is a high fever and some emotion involved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More soon! Thanks again to Solrika, Gryph and Marshy!

Let it not be said that Jack Morrison can’t be cunning when he wants to.

Both of them are used to this careful dance by now— the line between enough effort to fool their allies, and enough restraint to avoid hurting the other. But today Jack uses it against him, wading alone into the fray as a distraction so his squad can escape. He might not know Reaper is his best friend in disguise, but he does know that Reaper won’t hurt him if he can help it, and decides that being bait gives everyone else the highest chance of survival.

Everyone left, that is. Gabriel happily disposed of the traitor by Jack’s side, even if he had to endure Jack’s roar of betrayal afterward.

Now "Reaper" walks the back alleys alone: the fight is over, the remaining Overwatch agents gone and Jack having successfully slipped away after his ordeal. Gabriel’s temporary allies did quite a number on him, he thinks grimly, but Jack’s gamble paid off; naturally, Gabriel wouldn’t even think of letting Jack die, so whether the others had realized or not Jack hadn’t been alone in that fight.

In short, they’d survived the greater ordeal. Now Gabriel just had to find Jack and make sure his pursuers never caught his trail.

Jack is no slouch at stealth and survival— he survived the Omnic Crisis, after all— but decades of Blackwatch work has made Gabriel much better at it, and at tracking down those who might not want to be found, and so it’s not long before he locates Jack’s hiding place.

Jack has always been a little stronger, but Gabriel is faster, and the ambush waiting behind the door is no trouble at all. He deflects the blow, knocking Jack off-balance but stepping back instead of capitalizing on the opportunity, raising his hands in surrender. 

“Oh,” Jack says blankly. “It’s you.”

He looks as bad as Gabriel expected, unfortunately. He’s paler than usual and has dumped his coat and armor in a corner, pushed hastily out of immediate sight of the doorway, but most alarming is the swelling Gabriel can already see under the makeshift bandages on his wounds. Infection.

Jack’s eyes blaze with sudden fury, and he reaches out for “Reaper’s” throat. At any other time Gabriel would let him take hold and vent his anger, his grief on the one responsible, but today he catches Jack’s wrists to defend himself. It’s not that Jack doesn’t need the comfort that strangling Gabriel would bring; it’s simply not the most important thing just at the moment.

“I told you,” he growls. “I fucking told you— You have the audacity, the gall to murder someone ten feet in front of me—”

He takes a step forward, but Gabriel has the advantage of good health and stands his ground.

“—And here you are, like it doesn’t fucking matter.”

His hands curl into fists in Gabriel’s grip, and Gabriel is glad the mask hides his irritation. It’s not Jack’s fault. But the agent at Jack’s back earlier was one of them, the people wielding Jack Morrison as a weapon against himself even more than Gabriel, and he feels no sympathy for that corpse at all.

Jack sways, and Gabriel takes the opportunity to heave him up into a fireman’s carry. With a strange feeling in his gut he realizes Jack isn’t putting up the resistance he expected, shoulders slumping in submission. It’s the first time Jack has ever shown weakness in Reaper’s presence, and with a pang Gabriel wonders if Jack thinks he’s about to die.

He looks around, gaze falling upon the coat and armor dumped haphazardly in the corner. Gabriel kicks a box over it; he’ll come back for it later.

“Fuck you,” Jack mumbles, already well on his way to sleep. Gabriel swallows, but smothers his concern in favor of focusing on the task at hand.

Carrying Jack to safety is worthier of his attention.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack makes a conscious decision to doze off on Reaper’s shoulders— he wants nothing more than to not be responsible for whatever is happening, to sleep and forget about why his subordinates are dying before his eyes. Or why everything in his body hurts right now.

He awakens when Reaper sets him down on something much softer than the crate he’d had to patch himself up on, too tired to make anything of it except that he’s probably not in his makeshift shelter anymore. Of course Reaper has some kind of safehouse nearby. He wouldn’t have evaded capture for so long if he wasn’t so damn thorough.

With a willpower he hadn’t thought possible in this state Jack reaches out to grab at the dark coat in his line of sight before it moves away. Jack’s vision swims as the mask gazes down at him impassively, and it takes him a moment to remember what he was going to say:

“Does it matter?” he asks groggily. “How I feel? What you’re doing to me? Killing those people?”

Reaper hesitates, sparking hope in Jack’s chest— then bends down and gently pries Jack’s fingers loose.

“Hey—”

He reaches into his coat and produces a notepad, thrusting it into Jack’s face. Reaper had apparently foreseen something like this exchange happening, because already written on the top sheet in his familiar, horrible chickenscratch are the words  _ shut up _ .

“Hey!” Jack says indignantly, but Reaper ignores him and moves out of sight.

Spending a few seconds staring after him dumbly accomplishes nothing, so Jack irritably brushes the rude note onto the floor and closes his eyes. He doesn’t exactly carry painkillers on his person when he goes off on field missions, so Jack can feel every bruise and bullethole on his body. But his real concern is the risk of infection: the misery of his overzealous immune system is not one he wants to add to the now-routine pain of injury. The faster recovery is nice, but generally accompanied by a completely unnecessary fever that makes Jack and Gabe regret certain portions of their artificial enhancement.

He can almost feel it burning in his veins even now. Fuck.

He probably ought to tell Reaper about it, but he’s still angry and the only weapons he has now are words and silence. Reaper returns with one of those cool gel packs and— Jack blinks. He knows, of course, that Reaper is a mask and the man beneath it doesn’t really have claws, but Jack’s never seen him without them and the plain black gloves almost look too small.

By the time Jack reminds himself that someone is dead and it’s Reaper’s fault he’s injured in the first place the gel pack is on his head and his… captor is reaching out for— 

“You don’t have to— I already—”

Reaper hesitates at the hem of Jack’s shirt and for a second Jack thinks he’s been convinced, but he simply pulls out a knife to cut through the material instead.

“I did all that already,” Jack protests, feeling an odd squirming in his gut at the thought of Reaper putting unnecessary effort into him. “You don’t have to— for fuck’s sake—”

Reaper ignores him and cuts his shirt open, revealing the hasty patch job Jack had been forced to do earlier. He is clearly not impressed, cutting through the makeshift bandages at once and yes, it’s already infected.

“...SEP thing,” Jack offers, resigning himself to being nursed by a terrorist.

Reaper offers no response, replacing Jack’s haphazard bandaging with more care than Jack generally bothers with on the field. It’s… soothing, the touch of skilled hands, something he’s become familiar with over the years… Though some portion of his mind untouched by fever wonders what it says about him, that he’s nearly as comfortable with Reaper as he is with Gabriel.

“Honestly,” Jack begins faintly, “why bother? Why don’t you just shoot me and get it over with?”

Reaper actually starts in surprise at that, the mask turning to gaze into his face. But he recovers quickly, bending down to swipe the notepad up off the floor and thrust it back into Jack’s face.  _ Shut up. _

Jack brushes it off again. The room suddenly feels chillier than it did just a few seconds ago, and even that small movement has become harder; he knows he can’t make decisions like this, knows he can’t keep his mouth shut like he should, but this need is one he’s neglected for far, far too long.

“Am I not being obvious enough?” Jack demands. “Can you not tell what this is doing to me? Or do you… do you not care?”

Reaper goes on with his task and doesn’t answer, verbally or otherwise. Disappointment implies expectation: it’s dangerous to imply that Jack expected, wanted Reaper to care, but right now everything hurts and if he can make just one wound go away— 

“Are you going to kill me?” Jack asks, feeling older than he already is.

This, at least, elicits an immediate answer from Reaper, who shakes his head as though he had been expecting this question. The thought is not comforting.

“Why not?” he demands. “It can’t just be because my dick is that good. What do you have against Overwatch? You could destroy it all in two seconds, right now. Why won’t you just kill me? Why them and not me?”

Reaper shakes his head again and Jack’s frustration only grows— without a voice Reaper is maddeningly ambiguous, and the last thing Jack wants is to be ignored. It feels like Reaper will do anything for him except answer his damn questions or leave his agents alone; he’ll let Jack vent his anger and accommodate him in ways Jack could never ask of his friends, protect him from his enemies, lovingly bandage his wounds— but he won’t open his fucking mouth to explain himself.

Jack reaches up— Christ, his arm is much heavier than it was an hour ago— how long has it been? But Reaper catches his hand before it reaches the mask.

“You’re using me,” Jack rasps, finally voicing that icy fear in his chest. “I’d give you anything— I’d give you everything, and you— “

Reaper squeezes his hand and pointedly raises the roll of bandages, but Jack doesn't care about his injuries at the moment.

“—You’re using me,” Jack repeats lamely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more i said. soon i said. I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN OR ABANDONED THIS NO WORRY. here is some more as apology!


End file.
